No Heroes or Villains

I awoke from a dream where I got to tell the person who hurt me everything she did wrong. It felt really good. She understood how she had wronged me and seemed somewhat apologetic as I walked away, vindicated and triumphant. It was a beautiful dream.

I have only been deeply hurt a few times in my life. Realizing that just now, I realize how lucky I am. I think there are a few reasons why this is true.

  1. I have learned recently through my shrink that as far as relationships go I only have three camps: stranger, acquaintance, and intimate. There is one more past those; but only one person has ever made it past intimate and that’s my husband.
  2. If someone upsets me I think through it deeply. Why did they do this? What did I do to contribute to the situation? And on and on and on.
  3. I can’t stand unresolved anything. If I have wronged someone or someone has wronged me I would rather it be addressed as quickly as possible.

All of this means that if someone upsets me I talk to them quickly depending on what camp they’re in. If they’re a stranger, I will generally go through the thinking process just a little and then it’s resolved, for me at least. If they’re in acquaintance camp, I may not care one way or the other if the relationship ends. That would suck but life is short and I don’t like having unresolved stuff in my life.

So, for something to deeply hurt me a person has to be in a position where I don’t feel comfortable confronting them directly or close enough that I don’t just cut them out of my life when they are unwilling or unable to change the behavior causing me hurt.

This describes the only two people who have ever deeply hurt me. The first is my mother. We are great now, but that took a lot of time and therapy.

The second person is also a woman who is old enough to be my mother. Although her behavior often lacked that level of maturity and I don’t think she has any love for me in her heart. Of late, I’ve been struggling to forgive her. Hence the dream. She essentially bullied me out of my job. That may give her too much credit, but she’s the reason I left.

With my mom it was easy to forgive. She begged for it. Although she could never really know how she hurt me at least she wanted to make things right.

With the other woman, I don’t think she cares. The dream was wonderful because I got what I wanted. In the dream, she understood how she had hurt me and felt bad.

I find myself wanting to paint her as evil. She was the villain in my story. And although my shrink is helping me to see that most likely her actions had very little to do with me and everything to do with her; that doesn’t stop me from wanting to slay the dragon or melt the witch.

We are programmed to desire justice. Of course when everyone sees themselves as the hero of the story things get complicated. Who’s justice?

It would be so much easier if the woman who hurt me was truly evil, but that is not the case. For her, she was the hero and I the dragon or more likely simply a peasant who became collateral damage.

A few days ago I watched this movie, Radio Rebel. It’s a Disney TV movie but was enjoyable. There was only one person who was painted with one note, the principle. She relished in the agony of her students and once defeated quickly leaves the story. Maybe this is because in order for there to be a hero we can’t feel for the villain.

So where does this leave me and my dream?

I guess I have to acknowledge that maybe for this situation there are no heroes or villains. Just people doing the best they can. She was doing the best she could and that just happened to be the worst for me.

Advertisements

The Selfish Seduction of Stasis

Recently I have had one desire deep and true. I have wanted for everything to stop, stasis. Sitting in my kitchen sorting mail I opened yet another invitation for a wedding. In frustration, I threw down the invitation and loudly proclaimed to the room and my husband sitting working on his D & D campaign not really listening to me, “I want everyone to stop! Stop having babies. Stop graduating. Stop getting married. Just stop.”

I meant it.

Then my uncle died a few weeks later and I was reminded that the world doesn’t care. The world as a whole macro-sized village does not care about the death of one person, it doesn’t stop and won’t stop for anyone. I learned long ago this hard truth.

Please don’t misunderstand me, I know that people care, tiny micro-sized people within the village of the world care, but generally the attention of those people is fickle and short.

So when my uncle died, I kept moving with everything that had to keep moving. It may be different in other industries, but in the theatre the old adage, “The show must go on.” is just a loose translation of the world doesn’t care.

And even though I knew this truth: that the world doesn’t care, my desire for stasis only deepened. More and more I wanted all things to stop. At an event two days before my uncle’s funeral I was sharing my desire with a perfect stranger who said simply, “Stasis is an illusion.”

The 8 year old sci-fi nerd in me wanted to scream, “But in the future it won’t be. Star Trek tells me so!” I didn’t say that and tried not to let the statement bother me. I didn’t care if stasis was an illusion or a lie or impossible. Stasis is so deeply what I wanted. That is all that mattered.

It was on a walk with my husband that I was able to verbalize what I was coming to understand and couldn’t ignore. The perfect stranger was right. If I could make everything stop, make all things stop growing and moving. If I could make the grass stop growing, and the birds stop chirping, and all things still; it wouldn’t matter. The world would keep rotating anyway. And even if I was able to achieve what I wanted; where would the worms live if the grass stopped growing? How would the birds be able to make new birds without their mating calls? What would prevent all things on this planet from flying off without gravity?

Stasis is a lovely lie. A dream of how to preserve life. A desire for it to matter to everyone else as much as it matters to me that my uncle breathes no more.

I wish this weren’t true. I wish it was possible to stop or even slow down, but even if I did. Even if I slowed down that wouldn’t make everyone else stop. And I guess this is the true lesson to learn from Star Trek stasis pods or Rip Van Winkle’s deep sleep or Ripley’s drift through space.

Although you can take yourself out of the world and create a false sense of stasis, when you return everything else will have kept moving. You then get the task of trying to catch up.

So while, stasis looks really good it is only a mirage and even if it were possible it would end the world for everyone. I guess that means we all get to suffer sometimes. And hopefully you have a bunch of tiny micro-sized people from the macro-sized village of the world who have long attention spans and aren’t easily distracted.

You Are Not Allowed to Tell Me How to Feel

I am awake. I just had a nightmare about weird zombie government experiments. Sitting in bed trying to slow my heart rate I run through my day. It was a good day. Great time at work, finished a first draft with my writing partner, skyped with my dad. Why was I having this nightmare? The walk.

Last night, my husband and I took a walk. My dad told me about the father of my step-brothers. This man recently had to have part of his foot removed because of diabetes. I have been meaning to take better care of my body. So, hearing this story motivated me to take a late evening walk with my husband.

It was a good walk. You could see the stars and no one else was really out because we live in a community of mostly families and it was late. Most of these families were probably putting their kids to sleep. As we were finishing our loop a big truck drove by and when it was right next to us it honked its horn.

This sent both my husband and I into panic mode. Get home. Get home. We both sped up our pace and walked as quickly as we could. My husband reassured me that the truck wasn’t turning around and that it was ok. I felt a little better, but we both kept walking quickly.

Before I continue you should know that I am a non-white person and my husband is a white person.

Luckily for my husband and me the car didn’t turn around. This did however change our conversation. I mentioned that the other day I was walking to our car and noticed that our downstairs neighbor had a confederate flag blanket in their window. This blanket had not been in the window before that day. When I saw it I quickened my pace and tried not to think of it. After the honking thing, though, I told my husband.

Was this why they had never really warmed to us? Friends of theirs just moved into the apartment below us. What are their feelings toward an inter-racial couple? If I am being truly honest I mainly worry about their feelings toward me. In the eyes of people who hate, I am the problem; my husband would be fine if he wasn’t married to me, he’s white.

As we continued to walk, my husband mentioned an article in response to statements made by Rush Limbaugh in September about Ohio State University’s new policy regarding consent before having sex. He didn’t remember where he had read this article, but he liked what the person who wrote it had to say in response to Limbaugh’s comments. This person simply stated that you are not allowed to tell other people how to feel.

This instantly rang true with me, not relating to my identity as a woman but to my identity as a person of color. I told my husband that it would be nice if when I got into a conversation with a white person about race they just realized this simple fact from the article. Even if they truly do believe that racism is a construct and I just overreact to things, it would be nice if before making it about them and their own insecurities they could acknowledge something about me and my experience.

It would be really nice if they could acknowledge that for me every day I wake up; I am being judged by the world. That although the driver of that truck may not have been concerned with me, a person of color, holding my husband’s hand, for about a block and a half I was scared.

I was so scared that my subconscious tried to work it out with a dream about horrible zombie government experiments. If you have stuck with me this far I thank you.

After having a scary dream and waking up to realize that there is something scarier in real life, there is little you can do. I chose in this moment to try to help others understand what I feel sometimes. Even if it is just in my and my husband’s heads; we feel it. We felt it on the dark street corner when that car honked. We feel it when people look at us just a little bit strangely.

It would be nice if just once rather than tell us to feel differently people would first acknowledge that we feel those things. While this does happen on occasion it is too rarely.

Root Means to Strike

Fuck. The words root means to strike. It is a word of violence. Violent explosion of ecstasy. Violent murderous rage. Violent violation of human flesh. Violent paralyzed state preventing you from moving forward. It stands in when what is in front of you can’t be named. When what lay before you is so horrifying you can’t move. The monster under the bed sits in front of you ready to eat you whole. All you have left is an expletive that can explain all that you feel in one word. Fuck.

My Friend is Dead

My friend is dead. This fact sits in the air that surrounds me. It’s hard to write about because its everywhere. I’m not sure how to feel or how to describe what I am feeling. I know this is an odd thing to post about. My first blog post and this is what I want to write about but can’t.

My friend is dead. I feel like a leech because the entire time he was dying I kept getting ideas. I am a writer. Sadly I am inspired all the time in all circumstances. My writing partner and I are working on a piece involving death. His death gave me many ideas this felt weird and wrong.

My friend is dead. I don’t like using phrases like “past on” or “at rest”. He died of cancer. There was nothing peaceful about it. Nothing sweet or nice. And now he’s gone. Dead. He’s family was from a different state so I won’t get to go to a funeral. It’s hard to realize that he’s really gone. I keep passing his desk. It feels unreal because other than a calendar that stops in November it looks as he left it. The theatre where he worked and I work on occasion will be hiring someone to fill his position soon. I am certain I will like this person but terrified of them sitting in that desk.

My friend is dead. I didn’t know him that well but it hurts. I feel like the middle-eastern tradition of wailing is the only honest way to address a death of a loved one. I am Native American and at funerals there are specific things that everyone does. Roles to be filled. There is crying but only for a time. At the one white funeral I have attended everyone was so composed. The family members sat quietly crying. I want to wail.

My friend is dead. No matter how hard I try to talk about it, about him, it feels off. I feel like I’m talking around the subject. About me. About large societal expectations. About greater philosophical questions. Eventually I will run out of things and all that will be left is the simple fact.

My friend is dead.